The Lewis House 52 страница

"We’d have to train each of the Aurors to concentrate," said Penelope. "But Elizabeth, for instance, was in Ravenclaw, so she’d be easier to train than the others."

"Wait a second," said Charlie, standing up. "You mean to tell me that only Ravenclaws will be able to operate the spell? If you’re going to make modifications, then you might as well make it so that anyone can use it. It can’t be that hard!"

Cho crossed her arms. "It can’t?" she asked, sounding sweet but looking fierce.

He laughed. "Let me try." Closing his eyes, he said, "I’m thinking of a room. Say your spell, or whatever."

"All right." Cho pointed her wand at Charlie and said the incantation. Charlie opened his eyes and stared expectantly at the wall in front of him. It was blank. "Must not have been trying hard enough," he muttered. "Do it again," he said to Cho, screwing his eyes shut. Penelope stifled a giggle. This time, something did appear on the wall. A dark patch that resembled an ink spill.

Moody guffawed and clapped Charlie on the back. "Better luck next time," he said.

"I’m just tired," Charlie mumbled to no one in particular, slumping into the nearest chair. "How soon can you fix that thing up to work?"

"We-ell," said Penelope, biting her lip. "Not too long. Would it be possible to borrow Cho for a few days? Would that be okay?" She addressed Cho, who nodded her head.

Charlie shrugged. "Why not? We’ll get one of the reserves to fly your shift, Cho. And who knows, maybe we’ll have some new applicants. I’m sure everyone’s really eager to fly with Viktor Krum. Thrill seekers and lunatics from around the country’ll be breaking down our doors."

"There you are," said Moody, patting Penelope on the back. "It looks like you’ve got something to keep you occupied until Miss Granger’s return. I’ll be expecting a prototype soon. And as for you -" Moody pointed a gnarled finger at Charlie. "Keep a close eye on those dragons. I don’t care how well they seem, something’s not right, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all."

***

December 10

Dear Ginny,

Nasty weather today, but that's all right. When the Secretary Privy came out last week and saw us flying in the sleet without protection, she had a fit, and now the dragons have had tent things attached to their harnesses. They look sketchy - just bits of tarp on four poles, really - but mine keeps me dry and I still have peripheral vision, so I'm not complaining. Norbert doesn't seem too keen on it, but then, he's been edgy for the last few days, ever since what happened to Viktor. Hope I don't get thrown too, ho ho. Don't worry, don't worry, don't worry. I won't fall. And even if I do, I'm a good swimmer, but don't look like that. It's not going to happen.

You should see Malfoy under his tent. He thinks he's a maharajah. I notice Mordor - that's his dragon - is the only one that never gets sick or nervous, and I can't help wondering why. (Don't tell Ron about that, because it'll just give him more fuel for the fire.) Malfoy says his dragon's just better quality and that you get what you pay for, with animals, but that's crap. Norbert came free and he's the strongest dragon out here, because Hagrid was good to him, and then Charlie was. I do feel a bit badly for Malfoy, though. He looks bored. Mick and I talk back and forth, but Malfoy never says a word. And when it's quiet out here, Mick reads creature handbooks and I write to you. I never see Malfoy doing anything. I still don't get why he's out here. If he were anyone else, I'd say he just couldn't stand to be idle while everyone else was rebuilding, but Malfoy? No.

I walked by Lupin Lodge last night. Just to stretch my legs after work, you know. Saw you through the dining room window, it looked like you were doing some homework. Studying? Practicing? What are you doing now? I want to say I hope it's going at top speed, but you know I don't want you to hurt yourself. It was good to see you, even if we didn't get to talk. I don't know how you get anything done when your hair's in your face like that. I miss you.

Love,

Harry

***

December 11

Dear Harry,

Don't joke! Don't fall. Do you think you should be writing up there? I'd miss your letters if you stopped, of course, but I'd rather have you in one piece. And don’t bother feeling sorry for Malfoy. I hope you haven't forgotten that he's a prize git, even if he hasn't caused any proper mischief in awhile. Keep your eyes on him and keep your wand-hand ready.

I sound like Professor Moody! Perhaps I'll stop studying Healing, and ask McGonagall if she'll let me teach Defense. Can't you just see that? Or you could teach it, Harry, and scare the first years to death with stories. Or we could switch off - I'll do a year and then you can have it. I'm sure the position's going to be cursed like that forever - no one can do more than one turn in that job.

My studies are coming along though, and quickly. I think you know I worked on Ron, a bit, and Remus says it's all right for me to keep working with people a little at a time, as long as their emotional wounds aren't too dire. The only problem is that everyone's so stricken, since the war, that there's no one safe to work on. I don't know who I could possibly help without hurting myself, but I think that just living in the same house with Sirius and Remus is making me stronger all the time. I don't open up to them, or try to help them, but I can still feel their old experiences, to some extent. I have to find ways to propel my own energy out around me, to hold their auras back. It's good practice, because they've both got pasts that… well. You know.

But about you and me in particular, which you won't ask about but I have to tell you anyway - I finally found another book on Healing - "Open Hands" by Namita Vibhushan. She was born in the 1700s and was India's only Healer for nearly two centuries. It's a very short book, but it's a personal account, and it's so nice to finally know about someone else's experience with empathic magic. She talks about everything - about how tiring it was at first, about how long it took her to handle human feeling with any success, and about how she dealt with Jivukti Kanesh, who was her - partner, sort of. Well. He was her lover. Anyway, it's a helpful book. You can read it if you want.

I'm glad there are tents on the dragons. It's much nicer weather today, though - crisp and cool, my favorite. Ron mentioned that you two are going to see the Cannons play the Kestrels tonight - have fun! I'll be listening on the wireless to make sure Ron doesn't do anything stupid, like throw himself onto the pitch.

Oooh. Remus just slapped a bit of parchment in front of me with a lot of red ink on it. Let me see… yes, it's my Potions midterm. "How is it possible to flawlessly brew the most difficult potion on record, yet very nearly fail my test?" he just said. He would also like me to know that if I can't find as much time to study for my N.E.W.T.s as I find to write to you, then I might find myself unemployed in seven months' time.

He is looking at me in a way that says I should put down this quill. Bye.

Love,

Ginny

Harry stuffed the letter into the pocket of his cloak, where it crumpled against the others he carried around with him, and wrapped his cold hands around the steaming butterbeer that Ron had just shoved under his nose.

"Reading?" Ron asked innocently, thudding into his seat.

"Shut up," was Harry's eloquent reply. He propped his feet on the seat in front of him and surveyed the pitch.

It was the second Cannons game he'd come to. He hadn't expected to have so much fun at the first one, but there was nothing quite like sitting next to Ron when the Chudley Cannons won a match. Ron became a shouting blur of orange flag and ginger hair and wild, flailing arms; Harry imagined that even Oliver was less excited by the team's undefeated status.

"Undefeated," Ron was saying now, thumping his own feet onto the seat before him and slapping his knee with his free hand. "Unde-bloody-feated. But then, I always knew."

"Top marks for Divination."

Ron laughed, and swigged his butterbeer. "I made top marks in Divination. I've got the Inner Eye, Potter, and don't you forget it."

"Right," Harry answered mildly, and sniffed his own butterbeer. He didn't drink it. Just now it was a perfect hand-heater. It was winter now, darkness was falling, and the wind in the stands cut across the crowd like a frozen knife. Most of the fans on this side of the stadium were bundled up in shocking orange blankets and fuzzy orange hats. Those who weren't were shivering madly. "Let's make predictions then."

Ron made a happy sound, and sat up straighter. "That was always good fun," he agreed. "All right - when I'm a hundred and eighty seven, I'll be slaughtered by a falling comet."

"Er - a falling comet would take out half the world, wouldn't it?"

"You're stalling."

Harry grinned. "Okay… I'll get thrown into the Atlantic next week, and catch pneumonia by Christmas."

"Not a chance," Ron said staunchly. "None of that. If you want to get thrown, let's have it be from a Firebolt at a professional Quidditch match, because you're going out for another team when this madness with dragons is done, Harry." Ron nudged him. "Aren't you?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. But if I do, I predict I'll be killed by a hailstorm of enchanted Bludgers."

"Oh, nice one. How about this, then - I'll be captured and tortured and eaten alive by a band of ferocious veela!"

"Hermione'd kill you first. Oh, I've got one -" Harry sniggered. "I predict that I'll be doing some silencing charms on your room, when Hermione comes home."

Ron went scarlet. "Very funny, ha HA," he muttered. "I'm sure I could make the same prediction, but I don't want to think about you in a dark room with my sister."

Harry sputtered, and sprayed the foam of his butterbeer all over the fat neck of the squat man in front of him. "Sorry," he said quickly, when the man turned around looking irritated.

The irritation faded in an instant. "Are you -?" asked the man, his round, bald head flushing red above the black fringe of his hair as his gaze fixed on Harry's forehead. "You are! Harry Potter! And you must be - " his small, black eyes darted to Ron. "Ron Weasley, is it?"

"Yeah." Ron sounded like he wanted to be modest and withdrawn, but Harry knew better. This sort of thing made Ron walk on air for weeks on end, and he envied his friend that excitement. Other people seemed to get such a rush out of fame. He felt like he'd been cheated out of the fun parts.

"What an honor this is!" cheeped the man, his fleshy cheeks dimpling as he smiled. He clapped the ends of his orange blanket together. "Oh, tell me, lads. Would you sign a scrap of parchment for an old bloke?"

"Sure," said Ron. "What's your name?"

"It's Flicket Gladrag," said the man, handing over a quill and small scroll.

Harry peered at the man for a moment, while Ron signed his name. "Gladrag?" he repeated. "Like the wizardwear?"

"The very one! You've heard of it!" Mr. Gladrag beamed. "Own any of my line?" he asked hopefully.

"Heard of it?" Ron repeated, passing the scroll to Harry and looking up. "Who hasn't heard of it? That's yours?"

Mr. Gladrag nodded. "All mine."

For the first time, Harry noticed the beautiful, black-haired woman who sat beside Mr. Gladrag. She had to be a foot taller, four stone lighter, and fifty years younger than he was, and yet her diamond-encrusted left hand caressed the old tycoon's knee. Harry hid a smirk and bent his head to sign his name, thinking again of how odd fame and fortune really were.

He looked at the scroll and barely bit back a laugh. "Dear Flicket, Good to meet you! Yours truly, Ron Weasley" The "Weasley" had more curlicues than Harry had ever seen in it. He didn't know where Ron got that stuff. "Harry Potter" he signed quickly, and handed it all back to Mr. Gladrag.

"You two boys ought to be wearing the best of the best," Mr. Gladrag was saying to Ron. "Being who you are, it only makes sense. Or perhaps you'd like something for your young lady?" His eyes darted to Harry. "Hermione Granger, isn't it?"

Harry glanced at Ron. "She's our friend, yes."

"Yes, your friend, tee hee, don't I know about that. Well, I've seen her picture, and she'd do well in a little red thing or two we've got in stock this season."

Ron's fists clenched, but before he could do anything, Mr. Gladrag's eyes went wide and he wagged a finger at Harry.

"Oh ho, no, that's right, you've got the other one! The Minister's little girl - I saw that edition of Charmed Life magazine, and my, my, Mr. Potter! Yes, you'll certainly want to dress her up for the smart parties. Lovely figure."

Ron made a strangled noise, and Harry's blood burned. He had a vision of himself yanking the last dregs of hair out of Mr. Gladrag's head.

"Here's my card - and no cost to you, of course." Still beaming, and obviously oblivious to having caused any offense, Mr. Gladrags handed a card to Harry and one to Ron, who barely took it. "Good for business, people like yourselves showing up in Gladrags! And you've no idea what these autographs mean to me." He sighed, and touched the little scroll to his orange-jumpered chest. "It'd be an honor to give something back to the people who - ah well. You know what you've done. Just grateful, that's all." He gave them each a humble look, and Harry felt suddenly much less violent.

They were all quiet for a moment, and then:

"You want to give them to us free?" Ron asked. "Dress robes?"

Mr. Gladrag chuckled. "For yourself, for the ladies - just call." He stretched a short, pudgy arm around his companion's slim back. It barely reached. "And now lads, back to the pitch. Game'll be on soon, and I haven't missed a Cannons game in nearly forty years."

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "He must be all right," he whispered to Harry, when Mr. Gladrag was safely involved with the black-haired woman beside him, and no longer listening to them. "He's a Cannons man. And he's giving us free stuff. To think, my season tickets are right behind his - and it was nice of him to ask for our autographs and everything." Ron cleared his throat and tried to look casual.

Harry shrugged. "He didn't notice us last time."

"You didn't spit butterbeer all over him last time. Look!" Ron had forgot Flicket Gladrag. He pointed to the pitch, mouth hanging open, eyes saucer-wide, as if he'd never seen the Cannons come out of the tunnel before. They weren't even in full gear, Harry noted. But then, they were still warming up, and so were the Kestrels, whose leprechaun mascots had not yet begun to wreak havoc. Ron had insisted on getting there an hour early to watch everything.

Harry checked his watch. Five-thirty. Half an hour until the game began. He lifted his butterbeer to his mouth.

CRACK!

Harry was on his feet in an instant and so was Ron, both of them straining their necks to see what was happening on the pitch. A Bludger zoomed away from Maureen Knight, who slumped, dropped from her broom and tumbled towards the ground. The sparse crowd of Cannons fans who had arrived early all shot to their feet and gasped, and even the opposing Kestrel fans stopped playing their harps long enough to look horrified.

"Lentes!" cried Oliver Wood, pointing his wand and rushing towards her.

To Harry's relief, Knight's body slowed down considerably and hit the grass with a thud that didn't sound too painful. But she lay there, deathly still, with her nose gushing blood and her arms and legs at odd angles, and Harry had a feeling that the Bludger injury was as bad as it had sounded. Above her, the Kestrels' team captain and first Beater hovered close together. Harry thought he had just seen them grin at each other.

"Get out of the way," Oliver shouted at the mediwizards who had gathered around the unconscious Seeker. "Give her room -"

"Mr. Wood, back away - away, I said! We are trained professionals," said one of the witches in white. Still, it took two referees to hold Oliver away from Knight, whose prone body was by now surrounded by a crowd so dense that Harry couldn't see through it. They examined her for a long time, as an uneasy murmur rippled through the crowd.

"She can't be out," Gladrag muttered, in front of them. "She can't be out. She's our good luck charm. Come on, love. Pick yourself up."

"Pick yourself up," Ron repeated. He gripped Harry's shoulder. "She has to play," he said mechanically. "She has to play."

The mediwizards ended their conference and stood around Knight's body. Two of them floated her into the air and towards the tunnel. As they disappeared along with Knight, two other mediwizards approached the referee and officials. They were a long time talking and then the referee tapped his throat with his wand.

"Sonorous. All right, ladies and gentlemen. Maureen Knight has experienced damage to her cranium and to her neck, and must recover fully before she plays another game - which won't be tonight."

There was an outcry on the Cannons side - fans shouted and swore and threw their butterbeer cups at the field. The Kestrels fans cheered and swept their hands across their harps, while their leprechauns let out high pitched noises of glee and shot skyrockets of clover into the stands.

Ron moaned, dropped into his seat and put his head in his hands, and Harry sat down next to him, not sure whether to laugh or vomit. After all, it wasn't the end of the world. It was only the Chudley Cannons.

But he had signed a contract.

Harry swallowed the swarm of butterflies that fought to get out of his stomach.

"Oliver Wood, you have one half hour to prepare your reserve player and your team," the referee continued. "Play will begin with a penalty shot on the Kestrels for the deliberate disabling of an opposing player."

"WHAT?" shouted Kyle Kirkpatrick, the Kestrels' captain. He pushed sandy hair out of his eyes and glared at the referee. "But that was just bad luck! You're not allowed to - That's a load of - "

But his curses were lost on the small man in striped robes, who had tapped his throat again and walked away. Looking hostile but confident, Kirkpatrick returned to his team and gathered them into an airborne huddle.

Oliver, on the other hand, didn't do anything. He stood on the pitch, staring towards the tunnel into which Knight had just been taken, looking very lost. Even when Cole Kerry flew down and tapped his shoulder, he didn't seem to remember where he was.

"I'd better go down there and see if… if Oliver needs me," Harry managed, standing up and edging past Ron to the aisle, holding his stomach with one hand to stop it from jumping around.

"You can't do anything," Ron moaned without looking up. "He has to put in his reserve. And it was such a beautiful season."

"I'm second reserve." Harry had said it so faintly that he wasn't sure Ron would hear it. He was wrong. Ron was on his feet, holding him by the collar, before he could take a step towards the pitch.

"You're… what?" Ron whispered. He shook Harry a little. "What did you just say?"

"I'm second reserve. Oliver made me sign it. I only said yes because I didn't imagine it would ever - and I'm sure it won't. I haven't been working out with the team. And he'd put in his first reserve anyway, I'm sure that's the rule."

Ron's eyes had nearly fallen out of his head. He tightened his grip on Harry's collar so that Harry had to fight for air. "You didn't tell me that," Ron hissed. "And there's no rule - don't you even know the - damn it - Wood can put in any player he wants! This happened before play commenced, understand - before play commenced - so he can make a substitution." Ron shook Harry again. "Any legal substitution." Ron looked a little scary now. "That could mean you."

"Let go," Harry rasped, and yanked at Ron's wrists.

Ron didn't seem to notice that Harry was asphyxiating. "You get down there," he commanded. "Get down there now." He pushed Harry in the direction of the pitch.

Harry fled, rubbing his neck and wondering if there was some sort of charm Hermione could do, when she got home, to make Ron a little less obsessive. When he got to the edge of the pitch, a burly official strode towards him, wand out.

"Get away from the sideline."

"But I'm -"

"You can't be down here, kid, get back to your seat."

Harry bristled. "Look, I'm the second reserve for the Cannons -"

The official snorted and his moustache flapped, making him look a little too much like Uncle Vernon for Harry's tastes. "Sure you are." He eyed the butterbeer in Harry's hand. "Just thought you'd pop by and play, eh? Get back to your seat." And when Harry didn't move, the official tried to grab his arm.

Harry took a sharp step back. "My name's Harry Potter," he said through clenched teeth, and for the first time in his life he felt satisfied to see someone's mouth drop open. "And I'd like to speak to Oliver Wood."

The official seemed unable to think up a reply. His moustache quivered and he opened the gate that separated the pitch from the stands. "G-go ahead," he stammered. "Sorry about that, but I didn't recognize -"

"'S'all right," Harry muttered, and strode past him onto the pitch. Oliver was still standing, looking dazed, surrounded now by all his players and reserves, and Harry slipped into place behind Marty Gudgeon without anyone seeming to notice. Among the Cannons was a trembling man about his own size that Harry didn’t recognize.

"Oliver, are you going to play?" asked Michaela Pummelfront in a low voice. "We've only got twenty-five minutes. Are you going to suit up, or should one of us?"

"He'll suit up," said Firoza Newland. "Look, Oliver, it'll be fine. We can play without Maureen. We've got Ross, after all."

Oliver made a devastated noise. He didn't seem to be focused on anything. "If we had more time…" he mumbled. "Perhaps if I called the time out now and bought two hours -"

"She's not going to recover in two hours," Cole Kerry said gently. "Come on, Oliver, put Ross on the pitch, he's worked out as hard as the rest of us."

"I…" Oliver swung around to look at the slender, trembling man, who Harry now realized must be the first reserve Seeker. "Right," he said, sounding more like himself. He smiled weakly. "Go on, Doylan. Suit up."

Ross Doylan made a noise very like the one Oliver had just made, and slunk away towards the tunnel.

When Ross was gone, Oliver slumped again and let out a cry. "Undefeated," was all he said.

Marty Gudgeon, who had been standing alongside him with a frown on his pug-like face, now glared at Oliver and punched him hard in the arm. "We need a CAPTAIN, man!" he roared. "SNAP OUT OF IT! You want to be undefeated? You'd better take the next twenty minutes and do something about it!"

Oliver stared at him, then focused over Marty's shoulder, at Harry. "Potter?" he asked faintly, looking like a man in a dream.

The team whirled around as one body, and face after face cracked into wide grins at the sight of Harry standing there.

"Harry! Mate, too good to see you!" Firoza reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

"We're in a state, aren't we?" added Paul Wyeth.

"How'd you get on the pitch?" Medusa Francis asked, laughing and smacking her bat against her open palm. "Hex someone?"

"QUIET!" Oliver bellowed. The manic gleam had returned to his eyes, his mouth hung open, and he shook his head. "I can put you in, Potter," he breathed, sounding very much like Ron. There was a shocked, excited murmur from everyone, but Oliver silenced them again. "He's second reserve," he explained shortly. "But I promised he'd never have to play if he didn't want to -- or unless there was a dire emergency."

"This is a dire emergency!" Cole Kerry piped up, hugging her broom. "And you want to play, don't you, Harry?" The whole team grinned at him and nodded.

Harry fidgeted. "You've got a first reserve, Oliver. I'm sure he'll want to -"

"I don't." Ross Doylan had returned, all in orange, looking terrified. "I'm not nearly good enough, and everyone knows it. I've worked hard -" he shot a frightened look at Oliver. "But I'm no Maureen Knight, and I'd rather we didn't lose the undefeated status. I know you're the better player, I saw you in tryouts."

"You were at tryouts?" Harry asked. He couldn't remember.

"I was cut in the third week," Ross said. "Please say you're playing."

Harry didn't know what to do. "But I haven't practiced," he said slowly. "I haven't worked out with all of you, I don't know the plays, I haven't been following Kestrel, I'm not up to speed, this isn't… this isn't school."

"You're damn right it's not." Oliver laughed harshly. "But you're a natural, Potter, you're a natural."

"And you've been flying every day, haven't you?" asked Firoza. "Up at Azkaban?"

"Yes, and I imagine that's even more difficult in some ways," added Paul.

Harry thought of the Dementors, and gave a dry laugh. But Paul was right - he did fly all day, and was often called on to dive and pull off complicated maneuvers… still, dragon riding wasn't like Quidditch. "I do," he finally answered, "but it's not the same thing -"

"Oh, come on - give it a go," Cole pleaded.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04